


Slipping Through His Fingers

by Rust_Stardust



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Abduction, Abusive Relationships, Bad Strade (Boyfriend to Death), Blood, CSA Implication, Codependency, DID/OSDD, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dissociative Identity Disorder, F/F, F/M, Gore, Kidnapping, M/M, Manipulation, Mental Health Issues, Mental Torture, Multi, Multiple Personalities, Mutilation, Other, Physical Abuse, Plural System, Second Person, Self-Mutilation, Strade - Freeform, Torture, Trauma, Traumatized, Violence, Warning: Strade (Boyfriend to Death), explicit violence, implied csa, no y/n, referenced CSA, trauma disorder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:36:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28190265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rust_Stardust/pseuds/Rust_Stardust
Summary: DID, horrorporn, and abuse, oh my! Let's see how Strade handles his newest "liebling", a plural system. Written by a professionally-diagnosed DID system using personal experiences and a love of a greasy 34 year old German.
Relationships: Strade (BTD/TNR)/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [ The lovely Gatobob ](https://gatobob.tumblr.com/) owns Strade, but everyone else here is original.

It doesn’t matter how you got here. You can barely remember anyways. Your last concrete memory was from three weeks ago.

All you know now is that you are trapped. Again. 

Internally, things are uncomfortably quiet. You’ve spent most of your life in chaos; now, you could hear a pin drop, and you hate it. Clearly, you’ve been the one selected to handle this situation.

Your jaw aches, and you can taste blood. Not the first time you’ve gotten this injury — you’ve been in fistfights before, sure — but the concrete beneath your thighs, the rope trapping your wrists behind a metal pole, a sickening scent of copper and rubbing alcohol, that’s all new. A humming of a freezer somewhere behind you underscores your breathing and the sounds of footsteps above you.

Basement? Wouldn’t be the first time for that, either.

Your job for years was to be sadistic and cruel. To protect yourself and the rest from the horrors of needing to continue the cycle of abuse. You’ve “come to” in similar situations before, being fucked up and in a strange place. 

You heard him before you saw him.

A heavy door opens, groaning. Slow but purposeful steps.

Heavy military boots. Like yours. You look down to compare but instead, a pair of strappy heels greet your unimpressed glance. New bruises, judging by color, taint your knees. Well, her knees. Someone else dressed this body in the prelude to this.

Khakis. Practical. Probably a military surplus find, like many of your own clothes.

Black belt. Large buckle. You can preemptively feel the metal burying into your skin, almost masking the pain of the belt itself.

Soft green shirt. Built heavy. Not fat, but bulky. Probably strong.

Military insignia, but inexplicably wrong. Nothing you recognized, anyway. You’ll ask James about it if you can access him at any point.

Scruff. Scar on his chin. Golden eyes, murky, like a mud puddle reflecting the last breaths of a sunset. Wavy, greasy, chin-length hair. Not untamed like a punk rocker, just unkempt like a man who simply did not care.

“Oh, you’re finally awake!”

Cheery, almost patronizing, as if you’re supposed to be overjoyed to be in this position. To be honest, whoever got you here might’ve been. 

“Yeah.”

He looks crestfallen, expecting someone else, clearly. People rarely expect you. Six foot two, hundred and ninety pounds, gruff, merciless.

“What’s wrong, _liebling?_ ” His voice took a familiar lilt, one of disappointment. Fortunately, you rarely disappoint; unfortunately, any German speakers inside are so disconnected that you can’t get a translation.

“Long story. I’m not who you’re looking for.” You sigh, and your eyes momentarily dart to the wall behind him, before meeting his gaze again. Clamps. Pliers. Hammers. Saws. This was a full on murder basement. “Lemme guess. Vee? Wren?” 

Shit, man, not even mentions of their names brought them closer. 

“You are exactly what I’m looking for, _mein Spielzeug._ ”

“I don’t mean this sarcastically, y’fuckin’ creep. I am not who you’re trying to fuck or kill or torture or whatever. _She is not here right now._ ”

Shit. Goddammit. You pissed him off, and you can feel a new bruise beginning to blossom on your upper thigh. Steel-toed boots, unsurprising. Your role here is to handle these situations, though, so handle it you must. You keep talking, even as he reaches for your hair.

“Let me fuckin’ expla--!” 

Your jaw tightens as new, aching pain envelops the back of your head. The pole rings out and your ears do the same. You refuse to show it. Never. You were not made to be weak. 

“I choose when you talk.” His fingernails dig into your scalp and you can smell him. Masculine, like a cheap cologne, mixed with motor oil, sweat, and more copper. Not too unlike some of the bastards they’ve slept with before, but off-putting nonetheless. Those damn golden eyes tighten to slits as he studies your face. You don’t care, as he’s not really looking at you. He’s looking at whoever he met last night, dolled-up features worn like a cheap costume. You are underneath, lurking, waiting, unreadable. As much as this body took getting used to, you always found comfort in the way you were forever protected by anonymity. “Beg.”

You force a growl back into your throat, and sunk into yourself, hoping for someone more convincing to resurface. This time, you got tendrils of others, grazing your thoughts, curious. Most retracted immediately. The stench of a strange man tinged with blood was enough to make the more fragile parts run and hide. A few stayed, wrapping their consciousness around yours, willing to get a look.

“Please, I, I, sir, please, just… Let us explain, it _hurts_ , puh-please…”

Soft, feminine, on the verge of tears. Eabha had thrown her hat into the ring before scuttling away. As much as you’d prefer her to stay far, far away from here, at least she fit the bill. You hope to God that she wasn’t the one to put you here.

“Oh? That sounds more like the girl from the bar...”

Sickly sweet, like cherry flavored medicine. At least he gave you a context clue, one that suggested Vee was the one who went home with this degenerate.

“Sure.” His gaze had softened, in some sort of plasticine gentility. 

He grabbed your chin, jerking your face upward. Another, but milder, flash of pain erupts from your skull as it slams against the pole. Expecting complacency, a dutiful girl obeying his commands, his tongue ran across his top teeth.

“D’ya know what DID is?” You almost barked in laughter as disbelief flashed across his features. Your voice was nothing like Eabha’s — deep with a tinge of sarcasm and a Brummie accent. His demeanor did not change as he processed your words. “‘Course y’don’t. Guessin’ you’re not some psychologist, mm? Basically, I’m not alone up here,” gesturing to your temple with your barely-mobile shoulder. “And because my job is to protect the body, you got me instead of whoever you planned on killin’ today. It’s a condition brought about by trauma, like abuse, so this isn’t my first rodeo. We also forget stuff, called ‘amnesia barriers’. I don’t know who you are, why I’m here, who got us here, all that jazz, but I can assure you I’m one hard knock and will be laughin’ until I got no oxygen.”

His face had returned to his usual state: uncomfortably jovial. Behind those honey-colored eyes, however, was the presence of fascination. A science experiment is better than a corpse, but the bar is not high. His smell was almost overpowering at this persistent and short distance. Your noses hover inches apart, and now, you could taste his breath on your tongue. Cheap beer like the swine he is. 

“Now, who did you meet at said bar?” You began to describe Wren’s appearance before remembering that you all shared a face, masking a halted syllable with a sigh. “Makes it easier.”

“She introduced herself as…” His lips grazed your cheek as he leaned closer. Somewhat correctly, he guessed saying her name would summon her. “Bianca.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some things:
> 
> Eabha is pronounced "ey-va". It's Gaelic.  
> "Spielzeug" means toy or plaything.  
> A "brummie" accent is an English accent specific to Birmingham.
> 
> Characters in this are based off our own system.


	2. Chapter 2

Black.

Grey.

Teeth. 

Rip.

Red.

Green.

Pain.

Growl.

Black.

Blood.

Warm.

Black.

Green.

Black.

Black.

Black.

Black.


	3. Chapter 3

It is beautiful, but delicate, the delicate moment lingering the final note of a concerto. 

A man clutches his ear as blood runs down his forearm, brilliantly red, angry, wanting, lustful, a color of craving release. His eyes are just as otherworldly, this molten golden color, shining against olive skin. White teeth flashes behind thin lips, frustratingly close to fangs. Something angelic and ancient haunted those features, masked behind stubble and modern clothes, something similar to you, so unhindered. He reminds you of the days of old, where Gods drank the blood of those They had conquered and elegance was a gift, not a trait. You look at him and realize your eyes are gilded too. He straddles your knees, both a sensual and restraining maneuver. His face drawn up in rage, blood smeared across his cheek, his skin the color of a perilous cliffside or driftwood clinging to shore, he is so beautiful.

You didn’t even mind that your hands are bound behind you with thick rope, or that the base of your skull aches like some ancient wound, or that your thighs are made of reddened skin and bruises. 

Things, for you, seemed to move in slow motion. Maybe it was your ageless nature, the way you slid through time like a river always finding its course, or maybe it was your constant state of disconnect. Inside, they call you a “dejugan”: an alter that experiences and holds intense dissociation, and often leads this mortal vessel feeling numb. You preferred the title “Eos”.

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

He exudes such lovely warmth, the air itself felt heavy, welcoming, blissful, like slipping into a laconia bath and letting the steam fill your lungs. You know that heat came from rage, but your presence was one of love, _philia, mania, ludus_ , beautiful, and you could use your magnetism to soften his fury. You watch his mouth open, more of those teeth gleaming, teeth that have not yet evolved out of its original, animalistic state. 

“Was zum _Teufel_!”

Carnal, like the Gods who modeled him, all boiling anger and the panic of losing control. The language was one you did not recognize, or at least, not in its modern form; Clio might know, she knows everything. Although gruff, you know, when not during such strain, his voice is beautiful. Just like him, just like those you knew before time itself, just like you. 

His hand reaches out to you, and his skin elicits arousal in you in a way you have not felt for centuries. He was so mortal, yet so very inhuman, so Godlike, his skin weathered and rough like the many men you have taken before. Underneath his human husk, between his ribs, is the heart of a deity like you, pounding for release. You feel his pulse in his calloused fingertips digging into your slender neck; the hands of a worker worn like gloves over the soul of the divine. You moan outright, pink lips slightly parting and a string of saliva connecting them, your golden eyes glassy under heavy lids. He will take you and he will come undone between your thighs. You are not mortal, and his iron grip around your windpipe is nothing more than an aphrodisiac. 

“Harder,” you breathe, your voice a collection of a dozen others, like a chorus pedal.

His grip falters, which disappoints you for just a second, before it resumes in intensity. His glare was beautiful, that domineering smirk, those pools of amber almost orange with rage; he is truly a living sculpture. Without his hand protecting his left ear, you see the wound whoever possessed this vessel last gave him: a slit bisects his earlobe, an outline of teeth, hot blood, glittering gold, runs down his defined jaw, so beautiful.

“What?”

His growl encourages you more, your tongue running across your bottom lip, your hips rising. “Harder,” you groan, egging him on; you are a God, after all, a God of lust, one cursed to desire alone, one so beautiful that other Gods could not refrain from touching you, one enveloped within this mortal form, one that this God before would not be able to hold himself back with.

His smirk tugs into a full smile and it was beautiful, so holy yet craven. His grip tightens and you feel the blood, his blood, smearing against your neck.

“There’s mein freundchen…”

“Do you… Know… Who I am?” You know he could not know, but you had asked this question so many times, it was an incantation, a ritual at this point. You have inhabited mortal vessels for eons, and not one lover ever predicted your existence, and you revelled in the mystery. Each word was formed of stolen breath, what little oxygen slipping through his grip blooming into that desperate phrase. 

“Bianca, ja?” he growls as his cheeks glow crimson, starting to fall under your spell. The smell of blood, his sweat, your arousal, a better perfume than anything Theophrastus recorded all those years ago. “The girl who so easily fell into my arms at the bar?”

That you could not remember, but there was much you have forgotten over the centuries; what happened less than a week prior was of little importance to you. Bianca had been more frequent when this body was young and feeble, a dam stretching across the brain, holding back the waves of abuse the body endured. She was like you in many ways; easily aroused, a tease, innocent in appearance, but a being of thorns all the same. It does not surprise you Bianca had gotten into trouble again; what worries you is her silence now, as this should be her element, submissive but playful with a man who could quite clearly kill. Or, could he be considered a man, with that haunting, omniscient gaze of a God?

You delicately pull your thighs apart, barely visible but definitely detectable against his shins, and his smile widens, even farther than you thought it could. A rivulet of his carmine blood stretches from his wounded ear to the corner of his lip and continues into his brilliant grin of white teeth. 

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.  
“No,” you murmur in your thousands of voices harnessed by one set of lungs. “I am Eos.”

“Who?” His laugh is rough, the feeling of new bricks and old fabric, you want to feel it on your neck and against your ample chest. Sensing your want to explain, he lightens up on his grip again, but the warmth of his blood remains underneath your jaw. 

“I am a goddess.”

“I’m no frommer Mann, buddy, and no prayer is gonna get you outta here. Especially after—” he gestures to his injured left ear with the corresponding hand, some blood beginning to coagulate on his fingertips and dry on his sleeve, shifting into that muddy maroon shade. “—this.” The last word is harsh, unrelenting, accompanied by some anger you could not quite comprehend.

“I joined this body long ago to keep it safe. To do what needed doing. To protect. A goddess of insatiable lust to accept the advances of men who were greedy. A deal was struck. A life was saved.”

The man looked bored, your origins seemingly of no importance, despite being the subject of worship for centuries; however, his gaze sharpened in the middle of your explanation before softening again.

“Insatiable lust, you say, _Göttin_?” His last word is as pointed as his canines, mocking, but still beautiful, honeyed, warm. “We should test that, mmm?” More manic laughter echoes throughout the room you have found yourself in, a joke of a shrine you had become accustomed to. Regardless, with the presence of both you and him, this is holy ground; the blood blooming from his skin has blessed this space.

He removes his remaining hand from your throat as he stands, his heavy boots straddling your thighs, looking down at you with his wide smile. At this angle, he strikes you as some Colossus of Rhodes in the flesh, victorious, shining like Helios did eons ago, the simple lightbulb dangling from the ceiling casting his face in shadow and his hair alight. A God in a mortal frame, a costume of humanity, cloaked in a pale green shirt of a soldier and slacks the color of sand.

He turns away from you, shoulders shaking as he giggles from a joke only he would understand, and moves away from you, rendering your view of the temple you were in unhindered.

It is a grimy place, like the entirety of a slum condensed into one room. The floor was an ashen grey, a miserable color, mottled with coppery stains. This is a well-worn, and unfortunately unkempt, naos, but a naos nonetheless, with the two of you within its walls. The layered blood stains were unusual for inside a temple, as rituals usually took place outside of them, but Gods are greedy and inpatient. 

A wooden countertop, with matching cabinets and closets, were cast in ominous shadows only an akaina away from the tips of your toes. Tools both modern and ancient lined the walls and were scattered haphazardly across the workbench; hammers, clamps, knives, handplanes, augers, gouges, mallets, and many that you do not recognize, all of which painted an obnoxious shade of yellow. Was he planning on making an effigy of you, or possibly himself, with all of those woodworking materials? 

“Now, you heilig girl, I’m gonna give you a choice!” The man has still not turned to face you, preferring to gingerly explore his drawers, and presumably, his options, that will later become your options. “Aren’t you special, Miss Eos!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes:
> 
> "Dejuan" was coined by September Sanctuary.
>
>>   
> A system member that holds or experiences intense dissociation. They may numb the body or cause the body to dissociate upon fronting.  
> 
> 
> Eros, mania, & ludus are three of seven different kinds of love; romantic, obsessive, and platonic, respectively.  
> "Was zum Teufel!" means, loosely, 'what the fuck'.  
> "mein freundchen" means 'my friend'.  
> "frommer Mann" means 'pious man'.  
> "Göttin" means 'goddess'.  
> An "akaina" is an Ancient Greek unit of measurement, roughly ten feet.  
> "Hielig" means 'holy'.
> 
> We apologize for the gap, the original author of this section had more or less abandoned it, leaving me, Andy, to emulate her writing style with... Moderate success.


End file.
